


Meltwater

by havisham



Category: Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Ficlet, M/M, Pre-Canon, Sexual Frustration, Unresolved Sexual Tension, Weather
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-08-19
Updated: 2012-08-19
Packaged: 2017-11-12 10:41:43
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 732
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/489999
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/havisham/pseuds/havisham
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Jon Snow is one miserable bastard. (But you already knew that.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	Meltwater

**Author's Note:**

> Written (long, long after the deadline) for Five Acts, with the prompts - UST, weather.

They tramped through the woods as snow fell fast through the trees. The flakes melted as soon as they touched their overheated skin, though some stuck stubbornly to their hair and in the fur of their coats. Just as they crossed a frozen creek, Jon’s foot went through the ice. He swore softly, as he felt the chilly water come rushing into his boot.

“Oh, bad luck, Snow.” There was more than a hint of amusement in Robb’s tone, and that grew into a muffled laugh at Jon’s sour look. As an elder brother ought, Robb said, judiciously, “You should look where you’re going.”

The fat snowflakes settled into his hair and melted, moisture seeped into the lining of his coat. He twitched and waited for permission to speak. None was given, and Robb’s attention quickly fell away from him. They went deeper into the woods.

It was to be expected. No one much cared about Jon Snow’s discomfort, after all.

 

The snow came down harder and harder still, until they could only see a few paces ahead of them. The trail they both knew so well became more and more foreign to them, strangely transformed in white. It seemed that things would go badly for them when Robb spotted an old hunting lodge, long abandoned -- it was little more than hut, in truth. He resolved that they should stay for there for the night, before venturing back to Winterfell in the morning.

Once inside, Jon saw why the place had been abandoned. The sky had cleared enough so that the stars were visible from the great holes in the thatched roof. “Never mind,” said Robb, sweeping aside ancient rushes with his foot. “We’ll made a bed beside the heath. All’s well.”

Jon, of course, said nothing, though he did not entirely disagree.

A fire was lit, fitful and wavering, and they lay their wet things near it, in meager hope that they would be dry by morning. After a dinner that consisted of what they could scrounge from their packs, and melted snow for their parched throats, Robb got up and stretched, slowly taking stock of their surroundings. Jon watched him with half-lidded eyes already heavy with sleep, not wishing to seem over-interested in his half-brother’s activities, or in the way he cut through the gloom like a knife, more real than anything else.

It brought a strange tightness to Jon’s chest, and dryness to his mouth. He disguised this as best he could, by coughing and then grousing. “This could be the den of thieves and brigands. We may wake up tomorrow with slit throats.”

Robb’s teeth shone briefly in the dark. “I can always depend on you to find the bright side of things, Snow.”

His voice was warm. Jon bit his lip and muttered, “I beg your pardon, my lord.” He did not say this sullenly.

Well, not exactly sullenly.

And Robb shrugged. It was no great matter. He began to settle in for the night. He patted the place next to him, and looked expectantly at Jon.

“I hope you’re not waiting for an invitation,” he said.

* * *

Later, Jon woke with a start. The fire had gone out, and there was a sharp chill in the air. Every breath he took seemed sharpened, honed by the cold. Robb was a warm bulk next to him, close but not too close, face and arms hidden from view.

Robb stirred a little, and woke with a groan. He asked what was wrong.

“Nothing,” said Jon, who felt oddly desolate. Cold crept into his body, stiffening his muscles, freezing his bones. With a snort, Robb reached out towards him.

“Come on,” he said, gesturing to his own improvised bedroll. Jon crawled in, and was enveloped in warmth.

Robb went to sleep quickly, but Jon stayed awake, every thought in his head as painfully distinct and heavy, weighed down by all that he could not say.

Robb stirred, at times, lost in sleep.

They woke the next day to the sound of dripping water. Gathering their things, they had a scant breakfast, and headed back to Winterfell. Yesterday’s snow had all but melted away, and they passed the stream that Jon had fallen in the day before.

The ice had broken up and had been washed away.

The meltwater threaded through the rocks, reflective and playful, the color of Robb’s eyes.


End file.
